


Do You Still Hear The Voices?

by pansexualstein (octavia_romanus)



Category: Heavy Rain
Genre: Depression, Ethan POV, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, i don't really know what to tag this as, like it's kind of just ethan, lowkey pwp, this is pretty onesided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-21
Updated: 2016-05-21
Packaged: 2018-06-09 20:26:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6922009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octavia_romanus/pseuds/pansexualstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All his life, Ethan Mars has been straight. But he hears the voices, voices telling him to just lean in and smell a guy's cologne or run his hands through his hair. He thought that it was just a high school thing, but he's thirty-eight, alone at home, and thinking about Norman Jayden.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Still Hear The Voices?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [uvhopespot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/uvhopespot/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Marriott Variations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/800034) by [whitachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitachi/pseuds/whitachi). 



> Ignore the tasteless Nathaniel reference. I totally just wanted a Norman/Ethan story from Ethan's POV. I swear, there just isn't enough of it. While I do love Huggy Druggy to bits, Sad Dad just doesn't get enough love. Anyways-- I hope you like the ending, Jenn! It's sad af, but here's hoping I can write something a little more uplifting later. This work was inspired by whitachi's Marriott Variations, which I just love, love, LOVE. If you haven't read it (and ladysisyphus' other two works, which Marriott Variations was inspired by) I definitely recommend them. In any case-- Heavy Rain fic in 2016. What a world.

Norman’s smile is really rare. It’s so rare that it always makes people stop and pay attention. At least, that’s what Ethan thinks. It usually comes with this little chuckle as the former FBI agent looks to the floor with a disbelieving look on his face. It’s like he can’t come to terms with it himself, the fact that he’s smiling. And it _is_ a pretty stark contrast to how he’s usually so poker-faced. Norman’s smile is something that always reminds Ethan of warm turkey melts and the scent of baking cookies. It makes time slow down around him and it makes him feel fuzzy and warm. Every room that has Norman in it, Ethan thinks, feels just a little more like _home._

And the worst part is that Ethan still doesn’t really know anything about him.

He’s lying in bed and the ceiling fan whooshes above him. Tired blue eyes watch the blades spin around and it feels empty. Tears threaten to spill; nights are always hard when Shaun is over at Grace’s. Though Ethan constantly battles with feeling like a bad father, he still feels a twisted sense of comfort when Shaun is nearby. It’s not a good thing, he tells himself. It’s better that Shaun is with his mother. But the father just _can’t_ deal with it when Shaun isn’t nearby. He wants to be able to see his son, even if he’ll end up hurting him in the end. That just makes him feel like an even _worse_ father.

The man is completely alone, his only company the whirring of the fan and the branches that hit against the window when a chilly wind blows. It’s only been four months since the case, but the new year makes it seem even longer. Ethan wishes that he could move on like Grace, like Shaun, like, seemingly, everyone else. They all seem so well-adjusted, only flinching when there’s rain coming, but the man feels broken. No, worse than broken. He feels like there’s nothing to piece back together, that all of his other fragments have been lost.

A piece of him that died with Jason. Another lost in the warehouse by the docks. One for every video he watched of Shaun drowning. One for Grace. One for Madison.

He feels as if there’s only one piece left, and that piece is for Shaun. He’ll dedicate himself over and over, he’ll never give up, just so long as Shaun is safe. Ethan has a heart that beats for others, but he’s tired. He’s tired and it’s only ten at night.

Bedsheets rustle as Ethan turns onto his side. Despite the February weather, he’s still dressed in boxers. It’s almost unthinkable to dress in anything else at night. The man’s struck again by how empty his flat is. It’s quiet, much too quiet. Never mind that even if Shaun _were_ here, he wouldn’t be making enough noise for his father to hear, the flat is _quiet._ Ethan thinks about standing up, about getting a glass of water, but decides against it. It’s too much work, and then he’ll just feel too awake to sleep.

So what to do, he thinks. It’s too late to get up. It’s too early to sleep. All he can really do is blink at the harsh light of his alarm clock and replay the day in the darkness just beyond his line of sight.

Today, Norman was wearing something different. It’s supposed to just be an observation, but his tired mind picks up on it. Or… the _Voice_ picks up on it. The Voice does a lot of things that Ethan doesn’t understand, and it seems to be obsessed with Norman these days. But he doesn’t really like to think about that. Instead, maybe out of curiosity or boredom or some twisted desire, he indulges the Voice. He maps out Norman in his head like he’s a blueprint.

Ethan’s formed a habit of memorizing small details—he’s constantly afraid that someone will suddenly disappear. He wants to know what to say to the police. He wants to remember every detail. This is especially important to the Voice, who remembers even the tiniest little things, so tiny that they would be irrelevant to any police operation. Like how Norman pivots as easily as a ballerina, the sound his shoes make as they scuff against the floor, the look in his eyes as they glaze into seriousness (like seriousness is a layer of himself that he puts on to hide the goofy part of him). Today, he’s memorized Norman’s new outfit. He’s getting more adventurous, the man notes. He wore black jeans with slim legs— Grace has always favoured blue jeans with a more flared pant leg, so the whole thing was a little new to him—and a white T-shirt with a gray blazer over top. The whole outfit is monochrome, so it’s not like it’s too far off from the agent’s usual. The Voice reminds Ethan that the monochrome element will make Norman very easy to sketch. Ethan gently reminds the Voice that Norman’s eyes are harder to capture.

The Voice is undeterred, steering Ethan’s mind into a completely different place. It’s the realm of dark possibility, he decides proudly. He’s always liked naming things—it makes things easier to remember, to understand. It makes him feel like he’s in a science fiction novel. The father’s stomach growls; he wills the hunger away. He knows what this is, and he doesn’t want to admit that whatever the Voice is making him think about is having an effect on him. In the darkness of the room, the Voice paints a picture of Norman at Ethan’s kitchen counter in his mind’s eye, and like a dream, the agent’s voice floats over the whir of the ceiling fan.

_“Whoops… I dropped one.”_

The statement is for Norman’s benefit and Norman’s alone, but the Voice makes Ethan listen just like it made him listen earlier that day. Ethan watches Norman squat with bated breath, eyes hungrily taking in the curve of his ass. He wants that ass against him and he can’t imagine why, No—he can. It’s because of the Voice. It’s because the Voice wants to watch Norman bend to pick up the fallen piece of carrot. It’s because the Voice wants to kiss Norman and smell his shirt.

Either way, the Voice has a point—Norman’s got a really nice ass.

Ethan’s not even aware that he’s licking his lips in the darkness—he’s too busy reliving the memory. No, he can’t really say he’s reliving it anymore. It’s more like he’s revamping it, making it more his own, or, rather, the Voice’s own.

Norman—or the Voice’s view of Norman, as _this_ Norman is shining with a warm, orange-highlighted glow and he’s smiling a lot more than usual— turns slightly to chuck the carrot in the trash, a neat arc that lands perfectly in the bin. Ethan notes that orange is a colour that is energetic, uplifting, attention-grabbing. It’s also warm, like a sunset, bringing a comfort that is unparalleled in more enthusiastic colours, like red or yellow. It’s also the colour of the fall, when the two of them first met. Ethan doesn’t know if that makes him feel agitated or comforted. He watches the carrot—a more saturated shade of orange—fall and get lost in the sea of other waste.

That’s where the Voice starts changing things.

The agent turns, his eyes filled with an unusual restfulness, a lazy warmth that reminds Ethan of Sunday mornings and blueberry muffins. The father, still staring at his ass, gets an ample view of his crotch. He reddens at how much of an effect that has on him. It’s just the front of his pants. Blue eyes flick up, not Ethan’s, but the Voice’s version of Ethan, a strange, detached version of himself who isn’t watching all of this unfold.

Norman’s looking at him with a coy look in his eyes; he leans against the counter and smiles easily. The lines of his body aren’t sharp at all; they’re pencil sketches and they’re beautiful. The father refuses to readily admit this to himself, convinces himself that he’s only looking from an aesthetic standpoint. The Voice knows better, and, it seems, so does Norman. _“Checking me out, Ethan Mars?”_ he asks coolly, and the other stammers, unable to think of anything to excuse himself.

The Voice stops there; it’s polite when it informs Ethan of the tenting in his boxers, encouraging him to take himself in hand. This makes the father stop short, makes the vision fade until all he can sense is the wind from the ceiling fan and the weight of silence.

_No one’s home. It’s not like Shaun can hear anything._

_Are you mad? This isn’t you! This is just some other person talking to you!_

_It’s just going to be a one-time thing. Just to see what the Voice wants from me._

It’s that, in the end, that makes Ethan reach a hand down and close his eyes. He breathes in, out, trying to tell himself that this is a good idea. The Voice doesn’t say anything, but the father _knows_ that he’ll be amply rewarded for his efforts. It’s just like a trial. The thought is supposed to be off-putting, but it’s strangely calming in the privacy of his bedroom.

One stroke.

_“Let me help you with that.”_ Ethan’s breath hitches.

Two strokes.

_“Mm… o-oh, that feels damn good.”_ His eyes are squeezed shut; he’s telling himself that this Norman isn’t real, that the Voice is making things up for him. But this is a trial, and Ethan knows this better than anyone. His other self is testing him; he has to look at the vision. It’s mandatory for the trial, so, slowly, he opens his eyes.

He feels rather than sees the former agent’s body against his. His overactive imagination seizes this, imagines the aftershave burning in his nostrils, feels the searing heat of Norman’s traveling hands. He exhales all at once, pumping faster. At some point, he’s ended up on his back again, but he’s not sure how nor does he really care anymore.

A flash of Norman’s ass in those jeans. Ethan shivers.

The sound of his sheepish chuckle. His cock twitches.

Norman bites his lip, eyes hooded with lust. It’s unbearable.

Ears ring and vision fades in and out, but somehow, the Voice and Ethan’s imagination still provide. He’s only getting flashes, one of Norman’s hands here and a moan of _“oh, Ethan”_ there. That’s good enough for him, though. He’s a little scared of what might happen if he asks for more. Admitting that the Voice is right isn’t something he wants to do.

The agent’s lips are salvation, though Ethan isn’t kissing them. He can’t; Norman isn’t really there. But he _thinks_ about kissing him and his imagination fills in the rest. He’s frantically stroking now, the Voice beginning to take a shift into even scarier territory.

_“I’m going to pick Shaun up from school now, baby.”_

_“Oh, Ethan—you always say that.”_

_“You look especially gorgeous today, Mr. Mars.”_

It’s all so domestic. Ethan doesn’t know what to make of it. He bites down on his lip, his breaths heavy. He _wants_ this; he wants this so badly, but he can’t let the Voice know. The images come stronger now; Ethan swears that he can feel those amazing lips on his, but when he tries to describe it, he can’t. It’s because they don’t exist. He has to tell himself that. They don’t exist. That’s the only way to make it out alive. He’s not allowed to think of the other trials, not allowed to think of anything but Norman. The Voice has all but told him directly that that is the case.

But that’s alright. All in all, he thinks he’s doing just fine. There’s nothing, he figures, that the Voice can throw at him that he can’t handle. Or so he thinks. See, the Voice is just saving the worst for last. The best for last? Ethan doesn’t know. He can’t afford to think about it.

_“Ethan?”_ The voice is fragile, filled with the weight of the world. There’s nothing that Ethan wants more than to take Norman’s face in his hands and kiss each tear, comfort him and make him feel whole like the father never can. The desire is unbearable; his free hand clutching onto the edge of the mattress. He can’t touch Norman. He doesn’t even know where Norman is right now.

_“I… I love you.”_

The father moans for the first time, eyes squeezing shut as legs curl into his chest. It’s almost too much, but he refuses. He doesn’t want to finish. He wants to be turned off. But he’s made it difficult for himself now. The Voice and its realm of dark possibility work best in pitch black. Pitch black—the colour of elegance and mystery, and, more commonly, the colour of depression and fear. It seems fitting; Norman’s nothing if not elegant and mysterious, and Ethan is nothing if not depressed and afraid. Of course these fantasies of the two of them together would thrive in darkness.

Ethan’s afraid of the dark. He’s a little bit afraid of everything.

If the Voice has a face, it’s grinning ear to fucking ear. It imagines Ethan cupping Norman’s face, imagines him wiping away his tears, imagines the fateful _I love you too, Norman._

Everything happens slowly. The man can see each shift of Norman’s features as they unfold: his eyes widen, his lips parting slightly in surprise. Then, he’s filled with such joy that it radiates off of him—his breath hitches and his eyelids turn up at the bottom and tears start coming again and he’s smiling so wide, he’s smiling like Ethan’s offering him the _world,_ and he’s so _beautiful_ and—

His ears ring and his body shifts into his hand, stickiness splattering onto his chest. The release is everything he needs, everything he wants. He’s still thinking, still imagining Norman and he rides it out with his eyes shut so tight he sees stars.

When he’s finally aware of his breathing, of how heavy it is, Norman’s gone, along with the Voice. Ethan feels hollow. It’s all gone now, all of the wonder, all of the joy, leaving him alone with his cum and his guilt weighing on his chest. A shiver; he’s cold now, and he wishes desperately for Norman, the _real_ Norman. He thinks about calling him, and then decides against it. Sleep’s calling him right now, and he thinks it’s best to pick up the phone. His eyelids are heavy and he feels dirty from the inside-out, but his breathing is slowly growing rhythmic and his eyes are closing.

He dreams of Norman’s smile and fleeting kisses as they pass each other. He dreams of holding hands under the table and knowing looks and laughing at stupid jokes. But most of all, he dreams of being happy, of the Voice being right, of Norman falling in love with him and him falling in love right back. He wakes up with a hard-on and a headache.

But this time, he doesn’t indulge the Voice.


End file.
